


Slow-Quick-Quick

by leiascully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ballroom Dancing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melody Pond, ballroom dancing champion, needs a new partner.  She isn't sure that John Smith fits the bill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow-Quick-Quick

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: This is an AU, so n/a  
> A/N: Because I needed to write something sweet and silly. I thought it would be easier to make River into Melody, as she grew up with her family in this AU, and John Smith made more sense than trying to explain the Doctor. Slow-quick-quick is the basic foxtrot step. The entirety of my knowledge of ballroom dance comes from watching _Strictly Ballroom_ eleventy million times and from being dragged to my father's lessons as a child, so please forgive any errors.  
>  Disclaimer: _Doctor Who_ and all related characters are the property of Russell T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, and BBC. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Melody Pond crossed her arms and stared at her mother with disbelief.

"And I'm to dance with _him_?"

"You'll love him," Amy said, taking a drag on her electronic cigarette. She was older now, her once-red hair in a silvering bun, but once she'd been the talk of the ballroom circuit. 

"He looks as if he's twelve," River said.

"He's a bit young," Amy allowed. "But not more than, oh, six years younger than you. Ten, tops."

"Mother!"

"Kidding, kidding, he's twenty-five. Five years." Amy held up her fingers as if she were counting. "His face isn't his fault."

"Maybe it is," Melody muttered. 

Amy swatted at her lovingly. "Be nice," she told Melody. "You were that young once. I seem to recall you doing all right. Plenty of trophies to show for it."

"Men are different," Melody said. "He might as well be eighteen as twenty-five. He'll want to go out every night and lie in every morning." 

"We'll see," Amy said. "You don't get to where he is without a little discipline."

They both watched John Smith's progress across the dance floor toward them. He smiled engagingly enough, but he stumbled over nothing and nearly fell flat on his face.

"He just tripped over his own feet," Melody pointed out. "It doesn't seem unlikely that he'll trip over mine. Or step on them."

"Be _nice_ , I said," Amy told her again. "I've got a good feeling about this one. And as good as you are, you can't dance without a partner."

"Yes, well, that's all over now," Melody murmured. 

"Hello, hello," John said, finally reaching them and holding out his hand for a shake. He looked even younger up close, all chin and ears and hair falling over his forehead. He was wearing slim-cut slacks that made him look a bit bow-legged, and a worn t-shirt that made him look like a teenager, and it was all Melody could do not to roll her eyes. At least he had a solid handshake.

"I'm, er, John Smith," he said. "And you must be Melody."

"Charmed," Melody said coolly. Amy glared at her.

"And the infamous Amy Pond!" John exclaimed. "Wonderful to meet you, ma'am, simple wonderful. You're a legend."

"Well, I do my best," Amy drawled. Melody could tell she was preening a little. "And you're here to dance with my daughter, yeah?"

"Oh, yes please," John said. 

"Go on then," Amy said, nodding at the floor and taking another puff of her electronic cigarette. She blew the vapor out of the corner of her mouth. "Show us what you've got."

"Ms Pond," John said, offering Melody his arm, and she took it, stifling a sigh. He was gawky and silly, all legs like a giraffe. She didn't think this audition would go any better than any of the others. A foxtrot started to play as they reached the edge of the floor - good old Dad, must have been watching. A foxtrot would be much less humiliating than a rhumba, if this Smith danced as poorly as he walked. Melody raised her chin and squared her shoulders and prepared for disappointment. 

But somehow, when Smith faced her and put his hand at her waist, something changed. He stood up straight, the lines of his gawky body strong and smooth. His silly expression turned serious, nearly sultry. She couldn't look away from the sudden power of his gaze. He took her other hand in his and a frisson ran through her. They took the first step together, as sweet and easy as if they'd been dancing together for years. 

He was all grace on the floor somehow, as if once he had something to focus on, his body forgot its lankiness. He was taller than she was, but not by much; they'd make pretty shapes on the dance floor. His hips were subtle, guiding her through the movements as he changed from a basic step to a promenade, but she hardly even needed the signals of his body to know when to turn. She could see it in his eyes. He turned her and pulled her back into the shelter of his body. She wasn't sure she'd ever felt so light or so free in a man's arms. Her skirt flew as he twirled her again, bringing her back so close that she could feel the fabric of his trousers brush the front of her thighs. 

They danced until the song ended, only stopping when the music stopped entirely. All the dance students were watching them. Amy looked smug. Melody's father, Rory, winked at her and held up a CD of rhumba music with a question on his face. 

"And where have you been all my life, Smith?" Melody demanded in a low voice.

"Waiting in the wings, I suppose," he said. "What do you say, Ms Pond? May I have the next dance?"

"You may have as many as you'd like," she told him.


End file.
